Page 47 of Meet Me In The Dark

Thirteen

Celeste

The meeting ends with a flurry of movement and pats on the back. Voices swell around me in celebration, a low hum of pride and relief that’s well deserved. We’ve secured the project—the biggest one of my career.

And I can’t concentrate on anything anyone’s saying.

There’s clapping, nods of congratulations, and somewhere to my right, Lilian is mid-laugh with a senior partner, her champagne glass lifted in a toast to my success.

Meanwhile, I’m gripping the edge of the table with both hands, trying to steady the rush of bloodpounding through my ears.

I don’t care how insane it sounds, Julian Blackwood is the man from that night. Which means the universe has officially run out of ways to punish me for something horrible I did in a past life.

What’s worse is that he knows.

I get it.

He saw my face. Well, everything except my eyes. But now he knows that I know, and I’m freaking out.

The confirmation hit me the moment I threw his words back at him.

“Would you like me to talk you through it, Mr. Blackwood?”My own voice mocks me now.

He almost looked proud.

I’d learned my lesson like the good little student who took his advice and marched it straight into a fucking boardroom. That night, he demanded I use my words, and apparently, I’m good at it.

I was a moth to a flame throughout the entire presentation. A high-functioning, overachieving, tragically horny moth, because standing in front of him, seeing the real him—not the imagined version I’d built from muscle memory—I realized something terrifying: my imagination hadn’t done him justice. It didn’t even come close. He’s not just attractive, he’s built to destroy.

What do I even do now?

I can’t exactly walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, you don’t happen to be the guy who left teeth marks on my inner thigh, do you?’

Here’s the real problem: From the little conversation I managed to catch during the meeting, we were told that Nathan is based out of the New York HQ. Julian isn’t flying back to New York with Nathan.No. Julian is the one who lives here. In my city. In my project.

I almost died on the spot when, at the end—when everything was agreed upon and the contracts were practically signed—Julian spoke up with one last request. To my surprise, he stated that moving forward, he would like all communication about the project to go directly through him.

This isn’t how things work. Not even close. Usually, I’d check in with someone on their team. I’m sure he’s a busy man, with his whole empire and face that ruins lives, but apparently, he’s not too busy to personally oversee my build.

The request sent a wave of dread through my stomach and, to my utter horror, a spark of anticipation right alongside it.

Honestly, I wanted to stand up and tell him to shove his contract up his overpriced ass, but those were my emotions talking. Instead, I smiled, nodded, and said,“Of course,”like the good girl I am.

It’s okay. We can remain professional. Maybe we’ll never bring up that night again. Maybe I’ll stay in blissful denial. Maybe pigs will fly.

Shaking myself from my stupor, I grab my tablet, my notes, whatever I can get my hands on, and get the hell out of the room before my legs betray me. I can’t join in on the celebrations right now. Not with him there.

Lilian calls after me, but I don’t turn around.

Just. Breathe.

I feel like I’ve been struck by a freight train of lust and panic and something that sits too close to shame.

I reach my office, push the door open, and step inside, but before I can turn to shut it, a strong handgrips my elbow. Then I’m being spun around until the door is a wall at my back, and Julian Blackwood is the wall in front of me.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, not because I’m scared, not really, but because his eyes are locked on mine like he’s just found the missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving.

“I’ve been wondering what those eyes look like,” he murmurs in the kind of voice that belongs in shadows and silk-draped rooms.